


The undone and the divine

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU(ish), Angst, Dark fic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingering, Mentions of War, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Oral Sex, Possessiveness, Sociopath!Molly, Violence, cursing, heed the warnings, lots of dubious things going on, plenty of gray characters, plethora of things, very fucked up and unhealthy relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper leave nothing to chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The undone and the divine

**Author's Note:**

> So, you know that sociopathic Molly thing that I said I was writing on Tumblr? This is it. It’s dark, angsty, AU definitely and yeah…it’s a helluva ride. Because it’s AU, Molly and to a certain point, Sherlock are different than what I’m used to writing and I’m terrified to post this because of the complete 360 it takes them on, but for the sake of the story, it has to happen. HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY! Also: title is taken from Bedroom Hymns from Florence and the Machine

The greatest game (trick) she (he, _they_ ) ever play, isn’t faking his death and getting away with it, it isn’t taking down a criminal network (that, for all intents and purposes, they had a hand in creating) for the sake of the good, it isn’t even making everyone believe what they saw and ignore what was so _obviously_ in their face. 

 

No, the greatest game (trick) she (he, _they_ ) ever play, is making them believe, that it was all by chance.

 

(Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper leave nothing to chance.)

* * *

They meet when she’s ten and he’s twelve and they’re at a playground. She’s supposed to be with the children of her mother’s friends ( _“It’s a play date, Molly,”_ her mother tells her, her brown eyes casting a worried look to her father, who stands by the fridge, watching the both of them with inquisitive eyes, “ _it’ll be fun. Trust me, maybe you’ll even meet your best friend there.”_ Her mother looks so earnest at the prospect at having Molly act like a child, that Molly doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d much rather prefer her own books and dead animals or staying with her dad and hearing stories of his glory days as a feared and infamous thug. The Hooper family is unlike the other families in their neighborhood and everyone knows that, which is why no female would _dare_ deny her mother companionship.)

 

She doesn’t like the children at the playground. They’re loud and rude and they don’t understand her. It’s not like she doesn’t try, she does, she’s earnest in her attempt at making friends (if just to make her mother happy), but even she knows that there isn’t a common ground between them. (She’s always been too smart for her good.)

 

She notices _him_ because he’s standing off to the side, his eyes following the moves of _every single_ child and adult that crosses his vision. His hair is black, curly and wild and Molly Hooper finds herself _infatuated_ with him. She hasn’t seen him before (and Molly would have remember if she did, because Molly is smart like that, she remembers faces and names and things that in the future, he would think irrelevant and delete them) but there is something in pit of her stomach that aches and churns and makes her insides _hurt_.

 

She wrinkles her nose and turns her back to him (this won’t be the first time she turns her back on him) and continues to look for the right opportunity to leave. It’s when her mother isn’t looking that she leaves the playground, walks by the swing-sets, bypasses the merry-go-round and ignores the jeers and taunts of the other kids, ( _“are you going to cry Mousy Molly?” “Freak” “you don’t belong here”)_ , bites her lip (hard enough to taste blood and she swipes her tongue over the wound, lapping the red liquid that tastes like hot metal) and makes her way to the clearing.

 

There is a forest behind the playground and Molly thinks that she could play hide-and-seek in here (had she any friends to play it with), when she sees _it_. It’s a dead bird, with a broken wing and snapped neck. She grabs a stick and walks around it, clunking down on her knees, her jeans getting dirty (her mother is sure to have a fit) and pokes the dead bird with the branch. “How’d you die, then? Did you get into a fight? Did your mommy leave you?”

 

She _knows_ someone’s behind her because the air around her suddenly shifts (she’s a smart girl, she’s a clever girl, she notices things that others, _him_ , don’t) and she stiffens.

 

“Why are you looking at a dead bird?” His voice is awkward, a mix between high pitched and low baritone (and Molly knows in the future, she won’t be able to deny him anything _because_ of his voice.) He doesn’t sound judgmental. If anything, he sounds curious. Which is a welcome relief from the usual ridicule she faces when children her age find out she would rather look at dead and decaying things than play on the swings or the merry-go-round.

 

“Because,” she says, looking up and seeing two very clear blue eyes staring back at her. “It’s all so very _fascinating_ , don’t you agree?”

 

He stares at her intently, eyes flitting back and forth rapidly, as if trying to read her. The corners of his mouth twitch (almost) resembling a smile. “It is.” He agrees. He gets down on his knees next to her and studies her as she keeps poking the dead bird and inches his head closer to her as she continues to talk to it.

 

“I’m Molly.” She says, her palms and insides itching to know this boy (itching for this boy to know her, to remember her.)

 

There is silence and he clears his throat. “I know. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

( _“It’s a play date, Molly,”_ her mother tells her, her brown eyes casting a worried look to her father, who stands by the fridge, watching the both of them with inquisitive eyes, “ _it’ll be fun. Trust me, maybe you’ll even meet your best friend there.”)_

 

Had her parents known what would become of her (him, _them_ ), they (especially her mother) would have regretted dragging her to that playground until the day they died.

 

(But, her parents did die without fully knowing what their daughter would become and sometimes, Molly thinks that’s the most selfless thing she’s ever done.)

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is a genius. He’s incredibly smart and clever (and bloody well beautiful) and Molly thinks that _should_ be enough but it _isn’t_. Because deep down, in the darkest place of his mind palace (he told her about it once and she asked if she had a room there, he told her _no_ and she stopped asking), he’s conniving and manipulative and dark and Molly cannot help but be pulled in by the juxtaposition he encompasses (and that’s what Molly finds _fascinating_ about him. That is what is enough for her.) 

 

He’s also a fantastic actor, bending people to his will, reeling them in with his charisma and then tearing them apart with his vast intellect that no one will _ever_ be able to replicate, which _should_ terrify her (but it doesn’t.)

 

Because deep down, in the darkest place of her mind (she doesn’t have a mind palace, her mind isn’t as extensive as his) she’s just as fucked up as he is, if not more.

* * *

“Who’s that boy you’re always with Molly?” Her mother asks her, hands clinging and grasping one another.

 

“Molly?” Her father teases but there is a steely look in his gaze and voice (they don’t get her, they don’t understand her), “ _my_ Molly with a _boy_? Who is he then?”

 

“His name,” Molly starts, her voice soft and weary, her mind overwrought with memories of his voice and his words, “is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

(Later on in school, she’ll learn in literature class the importance of a name _“what’s in a name?”_ her teachers will ask continuously and Molly is determined to make Sherlock Holmes, and by default, hers, the most powerful names there are.)

* * *

She thinks it all starts when they first meet. It doesn’t. It all starts with a pool.

 

And a boy named Carl Powers.

* * *

She’s eleven when she asks her parents if she can go to the pool with Sherlock. Her mother agrees readily, eager for her to interact with others (anyone) her age. Her father is more reserved, more wary of her going off alone with Sherlock (her father was always the more intuitive one out of the two), but he agrees when her mother gives him a look and a kick to the shins.

 

He hugs her and kisses her forehead and tells her to _be careful, you never know what kind of people are out there_ (decades later, this will echo in her head and she’ll wonder if somehow, her father always knew) and watches as she leaves the house and meets Sherlock halfway.

 

The pool is packed and the smell of chlorine and sweat overwhelms her senses. She almost gags at the smell and Sherlock rolls his eyes, “you can see, smell and touch dead animals but _this_ makes you gag?”

 

“Yeah,” she replies, “well…they’re dead.” She knows how to interact with dead things. She says to them what she rehearses in front of her mirror every morning before she goes to school (nothing ever goes the way it does in front of her mirror.)

 

(She knows how to interact with Sherlock, but Sherlock isn’t dead, so she thinks there has to be an exception to everything.)

 

She watches disinterestedly until her eyes land on a teenage boy with red hair by the pool. Even from where Molly’s sitting, she can tell that he looks disoriented. She frowns when she watches him shake off the worry from an adult (likely his coach.) She jumps when she feels Sherlock’s coat brush against her skin. She turns her head and his mouth grazes the shell of her ear, his voice deep and breathy against it. She fights back a shiver, “that boy, his name is Carl Powers. He’s fifteen and dying.”

 

She keeps her eyes on Carl and watches as he dives into the pool and watches as he swims and watches as he stops in the middle of his lap, flails once, twice, thrice and then stops altogether. She keeps her eyes open as the simultaneous gasp of the crowd echoes throughout the pool and keeps them open through the screaming and crying and hysterics.

 

She stays seated and keeps her eyes on Sherlock as he bounds after the police officers and investigators telling them over and over that Carl Powers did _not_ die of unfortunate natural causes (“are you completely stupid or is all that cocaine you’re stealing overwhelming what little sense you have?” Sherlock snaps at one officer.) She turns her head to stifle a yawn (she’s tired of waiting and yet knows she’d probably wait forever and a day for Sherlock) when her eyes catch a thirteen-year-old boy with brown hair and brown eyes. His eyes are on Sherlock and Molly can feel something fierce and protective and possessive overcome her as his gaze narrows on Sherlock.

 

He turns his eyes towards her and gives her a sly smirk and a wink, his mouth forming words that Molly is too furious to process and then he leaves, a pair of trainers, hanging from his fingertips.

 

(Years in the future, she’ll remember the words, _letters_ , he formed and she’ll feel a sinking feeling in her stomach but most of all she’ll something fierce and protective and possessive overcome her; _I.O.U_. is forever burned into her mind.)

* * *

Sherlock is ranting at not being taken seriously. He’s ranting at Scotland Yard’s stupidity and Molly is rolling her eyes, her legs kicking back and forth on the edge of the wharf, watching as the dark water swirls beneath her.

 

“Good guys never finish first.” Molly says quietly, her brown eyes seeking out his blue ones.

 

He stops pacing, he stops ranting, he stands still, her eyes boring into hers, head cocked to the side and a slight twitch of his lips.

 

(Years later, she’ll think back to this moment and pinpoints it as the beginning of the end.)

* * *

One month after Carl Powers dies, Sherlock Holmes disappears and Molly receives a visit from Mycroft Holmes.

 

She’s at home, her parents having gone out to dinner, when the doorbell rings. She wrenches the door open, hoping beyond hope that it’s Sherlock, but is disappointed with it’s not. The young man in front of her resembles Sherlock. He has the same nose and the same chin (but not the same cheekbones and eyes, not where it counts.) “Can I help you?” She asks him politely.

 

“Miss Hooper, Mycroft Holmes. May I come in?”

 

She’s tempted to slam the door in his face and for all intents and purposes, she has every reason to, but she doesn’t. Instead, she opens the door wider and lets him in. She wearily eyes the umbrella in his hands and sits on the chair opposite him. “Would you like something to drink?”

 

He’s eyeing her and her surroundings and she idly wonders if he deduces like Sherlock, although, she supposes that _no one_ deduces quite like Sherlock. “Tea.” He says and as an afterthought adds, “and biscuits if you please.”

 

Gritting her teeth, Molly sets out to do as tasked and clatters around the kitchen. “Is there something you needed?” She questions as she taps her fingers along the kitchen counter, mentally willing for the kettle to sound as she arranges stale biscuits on one of her mother’s favorite plates.

 

“My brother,” he says, his voice loud and clear and Molly jumps at the closeness of his voice. She backs into the counter when she sees him behind her, umbrella balanced in front of him, “you are acquaintances with him, are you not?”

 

Molly narrows her eyes and turns around to make the tea, she stirs in the sugar, mentally wishing for some arsenic or cyanide, or really, anything that will dissolve quickly and leave hardly any evidence behind. “We’re friends.”

 

“Holmes men do _not_ have _friends_.”

 

“Sherlock does.”

 

“At any rate, you won’t see him for quite some time. He’s gone, you know.”

 

“What did you do to him?” Molly growls, something fierce and protective and possessive overcoming her, as she thrusts the cup of hot tea in his hands. He doesn’t blink when the hot liquid sloshes over the side of the cup and splashes his hand.

 

“That, is none of your concern. You will, however; never contact him again. It’ll be as if you two never met. It’s better for everyone in the long run, you see.”

 

“Fuck. You.” Molly says. It’s the first time she curses and the words flow freely from her tongue as if they made a home there long ago.

 

Mycroft _tuts_ his tongue at her, “why can you _see_ but not _observe_? You two will be the death of each other.”

 

“I think,” she says, her hands gripping the counter behind her tightly, “that should be a decision for Sherlock and myself to make…and it doesn’t…it doesn’t matter what you say…Sherlock and I…we’re in each other’s _blood_.”

 

Mycroft is silent, head cocked to the side as he studies her. There is no twitch of his lips, just a low sigh that sounds vaguely of resignation, “you are, aren’t you?” He takes a sip of his tea.

 

Molly frowns and points to the door. “You can leave and take your tea and biscuits with you.” She’s shaking as she walks him out the door, plate of biscuits and cup of tea in his hands as the driver opens the back door of a sleek black car for him. She’s still shaking after she closes her front door and sinks onto the floor, head between her knees and aching for Sherlock.

 

_(“We’re in each other’s blood.”)_

 

She thinks its worse for her, because the damn bastard found a place in her soul to make a home.

* * *

The next day, her mother is frowning as she counts her plates and cups. “Molly?” She calls out. “I’m missing one of favorite plates and cups. You know the cute ones with the hearts on them. Did you break any of them?”

 

“One can only hope,” Molly can hear her father reply from his spot on the couch.

 

_Here’s to hoping he’s burned the damned hearts,_ Molly thinks to herself. “No, mum. Sorry.”

 

“I haven’t seen Sherlock in a while.” Her mother says as she comes to stand in the living room, her brown eyes staring curiously at her. “Did you two have a tiff?”

 

“He left.” Molly says bluntly, “and I don’t know if he’s coming back.”

 

Her mother sighs and sits next to her, pulling her in for a hug and hands smoothing her hair down. Her father on the other hand, shrugs, “maybe it’s for the best darling, he’s not…well…he’s an odd one, not good for you.”

 

(They don’t understand. They’d never understand.)

* * *

When Molly turns thirteen, a new girl moves into her neighborhood.

 

Her name is Mary Morstan.

* * *

It’s oddly very easy to befriend Mary. Mary, is kind, she’s sweet and she doesn’t care about anything anyone says. So, when Mary comes into the library one day and settles down in the seat across from Molly, Molly frowns. “What are you doing?” Molly asks cautiously, aware of how cruel kids are, having been through it all first-hand (she got used to it throughout the years, always content that she had Sherlock, but she doesn’t even have him anymore and he hasn’t even _tried_ contacting her and she’s _lonely_.)

 

“Sitting at a table.”

 

“Why mine?”

 

Mary rolls her eyes and runs a hand through her blonde hair, “because out of everyone at this school, you’re not fake.”

 

Molly stares at her and sees nothing but sincerity and a little bit of hesitation, as if afraid of rejection. “I like looking at dead things.” Molly blurts out and then shakes her head, “no…I mean…”

 

Mary blinks, “see, that would be weird but my dad is the head Pathologist at Bart’s, so this dead people and stuff? It’s normal to me.”

 

“You’re dad is head pathologist at Bart’s?”

 

Mary nods eagerly, “yeah, I’ll bring you down one time. I visit him all the time on the weekends.”

 

Molly nods, something swells deep in her chest, “thank you.”

 

“See, we’re like two peas in a pod.”

 

(Molly doesn’t have it in her to tell her that her pod is already full.)

* * *

Molly grows older and alongside her, as does Mary.

 

Sherlock is still nowhere to be seen or heard from and there is a sinking feeling in her stomach that he may be dead.

 

(There’s a deeper feeling in her stomach that tells her, she didn’t count much to him anyways.)

* * *

One month before graduating college, Molly has sex.

 

In the back of her mind, she hoped beyond hope that her first time would be with Sherlock, because despite not seeing him for years, he still has a grip on her, an unhealthy grip, but a grip nonetheless and despite not seeing him for years, she still remembers the exact color of his eyes and the shape of his nose and the arch of his cheekbones. She bites her bottom lip and flushes, her body growing warm with the thought of Sherlock.

 

Instead, the guy she’s about to give her virginity to, isn’t Sherlock.

 

His name is Sebastian Moran.

* * *

Sebastian is a quiet and intense type of guy. He sits in back of the class and gets top marks even as he says nothing. The only reason why Molly even knows him is because she was partnered with him in their Chemistry lab. They became fast friends. He understands her morbid sense of humor and she’s okay with his violent thoughts and tendencies. She trusts Sebastian explicitly and it _terrifies_ her because the only other people she’s trusted that much, besides her parents, are Sherlock and Mary. (Mary thinks there’s something more between them but Molly is steadfast in saying there’s nothing, until today, until now.)

 

They’re not attracted to each other, at least not emotionally, but Sebastian is incredibly fit and Molly would be lying if she said she didn’t find him remotely attractive.

 

Sex with Sebastian is as quiet and intense as he is and Molly isn’t surprised. He grunts and she bites back her cries as he thrusts harder and quicker (he’s mechanical in his movements, as if trying to prove something but Molly can’t blame him, because she’s trying to prove that Sherlock is nothing but a memory to her…she fails miserably.)

 

Sometime before she orgasms, Molly closes her eyes and imagines black hair instead of blonde, blue eyes instead of brown and a taller and leaner body instead of a shorter and stockier one. She imagines his voice and wonders if he’s grown into the deep baritone that she knew it would become. She imagines larger hands with thinner fingers grasping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. The moment she imagines his cock sliding and thrusting between her thighs, hands, mouth, Molly falls apart with a loud moan, breasts heaving.

 

Sebastian is staring at her, his cock growing limp inside of her and Molly realizes that in between her fantasizing about a boy (man, he’d be a man by now), she missed Sebastian orgasm. Not that she thinks he particularly cares.

 

When he pulls out of her, he lays next to her, a space between them. A breath, two breaths, three breaths, pass and then he’s up and Molly follows suit. Besides a bit of soreness, she doesn’t _feel_ any different. She thinks she may have felt something more had she been with someone else (Sherlock) but as it stands, she wonders what this says about her.

 

Before he leaves, he stands in front of the mirror and stares at her through the reflection as she pulls on her bra, panties and slips on her dress.

 

“Who were you thinking about?” He asks her.

 

Molly shrugs, “not you.”

 

Sebastian laughs and it’s a genuine laugh, one that lights up his entire face.

 

“Who were you thinking about?”

 

He snorts, “not you.” He parrots her words back to her.

 

She smiles at him, the tension in the room easing. “Have fun in the army. Don’t kill yourself.”

 

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to kill anyone else too?”

 

Molly frowns and sits on the bed to slip on her shoes. “No. It’s the army. You’re being trained to kill. Just don’t…don’t lose yourself, yeah?”

 

He makes his way to the door and looks at her, “lost myself long ago, Hooper. Then again, I think you know something about that too.” He opens the door and makes to step out but he pokes his head back in, his brown eyes twinkling. “Maybe I’ll see you around you around, Hooper.”

 

“Maybe.” She agrees.

 

And then he leaves, taking her virginity with him.

 

Molly fixes her hair in the mirror and then stops to stare at her reflection. She doesn’t stand in front of the mirror for long.

 

(But she stands in front of it long enough to know that she still feels no different.)

 

She _should_ be worried about what that means, about what that’s always meant.

 

(She’s not.)

* * *

Two days after she graduates college and fucks Sebastian Moran, her mother dies.

 

It’s a _break-and-entry gone wrong_ and _it happens more than you would think_ , is what the Detective Inspector tells her and her father with a soft voice and pity lacing his words. There is another officer, with warm eyes staring at them from where he stands, off to the side. He doesn’t look at them with pity, instead, he looks at them with veiled exasperation, as if telling them that what the DI tells them is a _crock of shit_ and that plainly said, _this is unfair_.

 

Her father’s face is ashen and his fists are curled, fury and rage lining his body. “Is that,” he says, his voice hard and the DI flinches, “supposed to make us feel better? Sorry your wife was murdered but rest assured this happens lots. You fucking moron.”

 

Molly bites her lip to hide a smirk and maneuvers her way past the DI who is cowering in his own skin and walks up the stairs where her mother’s body is still laying in the hallway. “Miss.” An officer calls out to her. “You can’t be up here.”

 

“She’s my mother.”

 

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

 

“I want to see my mother.”

 

“We’re bringing her to Bart’s. As soon as they’re done with her, you’ll be able to see her. However; this is still an active crime scene. My hands are tied. Again, I’m sorry.”

 

“She’s right. You can’t be here.” A voice says from behind her.

 

She whirls around and stares at the officer from downstairs. “I want to see my mother.” She repeats slowly. It’s the only thing she can think of, the only thing she thinks should matter.

 

“You can’t.” He says, his voice remorseful. “It’s procedure.”

 

“Procedure.” Molly says flatly, “Officer…” she squints at his nametag, “Lestrade, do you always follow procedure?”

 

“Always.” He replies and the ushers Molly down the stairs.

 

(There will come a day when Greg Lestrade will not follow procedure and Molly will be there to see it.)

* * *

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

“But you will.” Molly says as she looks at him.

 

Dr. Henry Morstan sighs and looks at her over the body of her mother. “You sure you want to do this? Molly, this…you won’t be able to see your mother as anything other than this.”

 

“With all due respect, Dr. Morstan, I don’t think you have any idea what I’m able to do.”

 

He chuckles and pulls on his mask and gestures for her to put on hers. “Then let’s get down to business because Lord knows, I’ll probably be sacked over this.”

 

(Molly’s mother is her first and greatest autopsy.)

* * *

Her mother’s funeral is a quiet affair. Her father doesn’t want anything extravagant, only those closest to them. Mary is there, standing beside her, holding onto her hand as her mother’s coffin is lowered into the ground.

 

The dirt in her hand is rough and it leaves traces in the creases of her palm when she throws it in and watches as it falls onto the closed coffin. She looks up as she takes her place next to her father and sees a tall figure in the trees, watching the funeral with interest.

 

Molly’s breath catches.

 

(It’s been years but she’d recognize Sherlock Holmes anywhere.)

* * *

“His name is Damian Cavanaugh.” Sherlock tells her.

 

When she sees him through the trees, she leaves her father’s and Mary’s side and makes her way through the tombstones of those long forgotten to make her way to him. He’s leaning against the tree, as if he’s always been there and when she sees him, she can barely contain herself, she doesn’t know what she’s doing until her hand is suddenly stinging with lingering pain and his cheek is red with the force of her slap. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?”

 

“I know who killed your mother.” He tells her.

 

She pauses and then crosses her arms, “start talking.”

 

He tells her what he knows and it never fails to amaze her how intelligent he is. How fucking extraordinary he is.

 

“How do you know all this?”

 

“The evidence was on your mother’s body.” He states bluntly.

 

“My mother’s…?” She gapes at him and clenches her fists, “you were in my house? When?”

 

“I impersonated an officer, easy to do, as Scotland Yard is incompetent. It’s rather pitiful.”

 

“You were there…why…why didn’t you say anything?” She asks him.

 

He has a wicked glint in his eyes when he answers her, “it’s procedure Molly.”

 

(Sometimes, _most of the times_ , she thinks she loves this man. Other times, she would give anything to kill him.)

* * *

_“In other news, convicted criminal, Damian Cavanaugh has been found dead, in what appears to be a mugging in Bristol.”_

 

Molly turns her head and looks at her father who shuts the telly off and they sit in silence. He clears his throat and stands up wearily. It’s the weakest she’s seen her father and Molly gnaws at her lip as she watches him walk towards the front door. “Be sure to give my thanks to Sherlock.”

* * *

Later that night, she walks into her room and turns on the lights and jumps back, hand on her rapidly beating heart. Sherlock is standing in front of her window, hands clasped behind his back.

 

She steps deeper into her room, both of them not saying anything and she lets the door shut and locks it, the resounding click, sounding final in the small room. “You killed Damian.”

 

“He killed your mother.”

 

(This is his justification and Molly can’t help but love him a little bit more than she already did.)

 

She crosses the distance between them and presses her lips to his. She grips his forearms as her knees buckle. He tastes like sweet poison. He tastes like eternal damnation and when he wraps his arms around her waist and presses her roughly against the wall, she can’t help but moan, her hands clawing at his shirt, trying desperately to feel more of him.

 

His hands trail paths of fire as he lifts her shirt and pulls it off of her, mouth sucking at her neck, collarbone and tops of her breasts. She pulls his head away, kissing him hard once again and pulls him to the bed, falling on top of him gracelessly. He’s hard beneath her, his erection pressing against her and she lets out a whimper as she grinds her hips against him. He hisses and his hands grip her thighs, spreading her further until she is perched atop of him and he bucks up and she follows suit.

 

It’s synchronized, as if they’ve been doing this forever, she’s whimpering, the cloth of her thin pajama shorts catching on his trousers as she ruts against him. She leans forward and puts her hands on his bare chest (when did she unbutton his shirt?), “I need you to fuck me, _now_.”

 

He twists her around until she’s under him. She expects him to take off his trousers and pants and she expects him to kiss her again, but instead, he pulls off her shorts and panties, electric shocks tingling her spine as his fingertips graze her core. He doesn’t kiss her, just stares intently at her and she doesn’t even notice his fingers until he’s inserted one, then two, inside of her.

 

She’s oddly reminded of Sebastian and then thoughts of Sebastian flee her mind when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out, pinching and stroking. Molly arches her back; sweat starting to cover her body.

 

He pulls his fingers out and Molly protests.

 

“You’ve done this before.” He states.

 

She stares at him incredulously. “So what?”

 

“Who was he?” His eyes are dilated but Molly can see the anger, she can see the fury and possessiveness behind them.

 

“What does it matter?” She snaps.

 

“Molly.” Sherlock warns. “ _Who. Was. He_?”

 

“No one.”

 

He spreads her legs and rests himself between them, his trousers catching on her sensitive skin. “Tell me.” He says, his mouth catching a nipple. His hands wandering all over her body but not touching her where she needs (aches) to be touched.

 

She whimpers at the onslaught of emotions and she trembles when she hears the zipper of his trousers, the rustling of clothes, the sound of them hitting the floor, the crinkling of a wrapper. She jolts when his knuckles brush along her, barely touching her, just teasing. “Sebastian.” She croaks out, “Sebastian Moran.”

 

Sherlock enters her without warning and Molly keens, arms flinging around his neck, fingernails digging into his back.

 

“You’re mine, Molly.” Sherlock pants in her ear. “ _Mine_. No one else’s.”

 

“Yours.” She babbles, practically sobbing as he pushes in and out in a rough rhythm. The headboard colliding painfully with the wall. “ _Yours_. Always. _Always_. _I promise_.”

 

All it takes is a few more thrusts and Molly is thrown over the edge, abandoning all pride and all sense of self as she wraps her legs around his waist and shrieks his name. She can hear him grunt, his hands finding purchase on her hips again, their grip tight enough to leave bruises. He comes inside of her, body stretching along hers. He drops his head onto her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin. She’s immobilized under him and there is no other place in this world, she would rather be.

 

“Mine.” He repeats.

 

“Yours.” She agrees.

* * *

“You’ve done this before too.” She says a few hours later. They’re still naked but this time Molly is between his legs, her head level to his hard cock.

 

“I have and deleted it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It was irrelevant for me.”

 

She bends her head, her mouth engulfing him and he bucks his hips into her mouth, she gags a little bit and places her small hands on his hips, pushing them down. She moves her hair to one side and lifts her eyes. He’s staring at her, eyes hooded and dilated; his hands find purchase in her hair. He hisses when she wraps her tongue around him while playing with his balls. She slowly moves her mouth away from him, “mine,” she echoes his claim back at him.

 

He gives her a lazy smirk and doesn’t say anything. It’s only when she wraps her mouth around him again, her eyes finding his, that she realizes he doesn’t have to.

 

(It’s in the way his hands grip her hair harder, the way he bucks wildly against her mouth and the way his eyes are desperate while looking at her, that she knows, he’s hers as much as she’s his.)

* * *

It’s early morning when she hears the doorbell ring. She groans as it wakes her. Her intent is to ignore it and stay in bed. She opens her eyes and bites her lip when she sees Sherlock sprawled on his back, his cock already hard through the thin bed sheets.

 

The doorbell rings again and Molly rolls her eyes as she grabs her dressing gown, wraps it around her naked body and walks down the stairs. She winces at the pain between her legs and throughout her body. She wrenches the door open and then begins to shut it but the tip of an umbrella stops her.

 

Mycroft Holmes stares back at her, a small bag dangling from his fingertips, “Miss Hooper,” he begins but doesn’t get a chance to finish as Molly cuts him off.

 

“If you’ve come to warn me away from Sherlock, I’m going to save you the trouble and tell you to _fuck off_ right here and now.”

 

“Why do you have so much loyalty to my brother?” He asks her.

 

“Because I love him.” She admits, not that she’d ever tell Sherlock that. God no. He’d run away and Molly cannot let him go, not now. Not ever.

 

“All the more pity for you then.” Mycroft replies. “Caring is not an advantage. You of all people should know that.”

 

“What. Do. You. Want?”

 

He rolls his eyes, “please pass along this message to Sherlock: his mess, of which you know exactly what I’m referring to, has been disposed of.”

 

“ _You’re_ helping _me_?”

 

“Miss Hooper, I am helping and I will _always_ help my brother, no matter what and by default, helping him means helping you.” He tips his head at her and hands her the small bag. “I do believe these belong to you.” He leaves, opening the back door to a sleek black car and getting in. She waits until the car pulls away from the curb and disappears from sight before she closes the front door and goes into the kitchen.

 

She places the small bag on the table and opens it.

 

She sinks down onto a chair as she pulls out a small plate and matching cup, hearts painted on them.

 

In any other situation, she thinks that she and Mycroft Holmes could have been friends. But it’s not any other situation, it’s this situation and Molly, not knowing what else to do, starts laughing.

* * *

Uni is hard and she spends most of her time either in the library or in her room, studying.

 

Mary decided to travel Europe and sends her postcards from the places she’s been and she sends her little souvenirs that Molly cherishes.

 

Sherlock stays with her sometimes. His body covering hers, hands and mouth memorizing what she so willfully gives him over and over again.

 

She feels almost normal.

 

Until she realizes the only reason why she feels normal is because she’s bored.

* * *

“Do you ever get bored?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then lets play a game.” She suggests, propping herself on his elbows, the blanket falling down her bare back. He cocks an eyebrow at her and she grins as she moves her head closer to his, her mouth pressing against his, “lets rule the world, you and I.”

 

They seal the deal with a kiss.

* * *

“How long have you been thinking of this?” He questions her, as she moves back and forth on his cock slowly.

 

And because he’s Sherlock, she answers him truthfully, “since Carl Powers.”

* * *

Sherlock is the one to tell her about James Moriarty.

 

And Molly can’t help but agree that he’d be perfect.

 

(It’s isn’t until she sees him that she remembers the boy with brown hair and brown eyes, sneakers dangling from his fingertips, at the pool when Carl Power died, an _I.O.U._ falling from his lips.)

* * *

Sherlock assists Scotland Yard (Lestrade) on cases. His name growing more and more popular (infamous) throughout circles.

 

Molly gets into med school and becomes an introvert, unable and unwilling to deal with people that she has no intention of ever dealing with again. They call her Mousy Molly but that’s fine with her.

 

(Everyone always underestimates the quiet ones.)

* * *

Everything is going according to plan, everything is on schedule.

 

Until Sherlock starts using.

* * *

“What have you taken?” She demands an answer, hysteria clawing at her throat and constricting her heart. “Sherlock!” She grabs the sides of his face between her hands and searches him. His eyes are dilated but not with pleasure, instead with the haze of drugs.

 

“What haven’t I taken?” He asks her deliriously. He looks up at her, as if just noticing that she’s here. “Molly. Molly. _Molly_. _Molly Hooper_.”

 

“I’m here.” She tells him as she scrambles for her phone. She doesn’t want to call him, she never wants to call him but she knows that he’ll help Sherlock better than she ever could. The phone rings once before he answers. “Mycroft…it’s Sherlock…he’s at my flat. Hurry.”

 

Sherlock lays his head on her chest and she runs her hands over his neck feeling his erratic pulse. He’s mumbling into her pajama shirt and Molly frowns, unable to comprehend him. “Sherlock, what are you saying?” She lifts his head and his eyes are wide. “Sherlock?”

 

“You called Mycroft?”

 

“Yes.” She answers truthfully.

 

His grip on her tightens and she winces. “He’s going to take you away from me.”

 

“Only for a little bit.”

 

“Like before.” He groans as he doubles over nearly pushing her to the ground as he scrambles for the toilet. She follows him, kneeling on the cold tiled floor and running her hands through his curls as he vomits.

 

She puts her mouth to the shell of his ear. “ _Not_ like before. _Never_ like before.”

* * *

Mycroft comes back the next day, but he doesn’t come alone. Instead, a tall younger woman with black hair, heels and a black trench coat comes with him. “He has three months in rehab.”

 

“Where?”

 

He shakes his head. “No visitors during that time.”

 

“I made him a promise.”

 

Mycroft sneers at her, “I know. _Sentiment._ When he is done his three months, I will have him personally brought here.”

 

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him, “not going to try and keep him away from me?”

 

“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft starts, “I’ve no doubt that even if I did, both you and Sherlock would tear apart this hell you’ve built to find each other.”

 

(Mycroft underestimates her; Molly would _burn_ the _entire world_ to find Sherlock.)

* * *

In the three months that Sherlock is gone, Molly graduates med school near the top of her class and secures a spot as a Pathologist at Bart’s (per the recommendation of not only her professors but a retired Dr. Morstan, as well.)

 

Mary takes time out of her life-long adventure and comes to see her graduate. She cheers the loudest, standing next to Molly’s father who whistles even though his face is drawn and pale (he’s sick, dying and she wonders if he even realizes that.)

 

The first day at the morgue, she meets Lestrade (again, but he’s shed the officer title and instead is a DI now, thanks to Sherlock.) “Are you here for a body?” Molly asks him casually. She wonders if he remembers her, wonders if he knows it was his words that set everything in motion.

 

He nods and then stops and stares at her, “do I know you? You look…you look familiar.”

 

Molly stares at him for good measure and then shrugs, giving him a shy little smile. “I’ve a familiar face.”

 

He chuckles and runs a hand through his already graying hair, the wedding band on his finger glittering in the light.

 

_(“His marriage is a sham.”_ Sherlock tells her over Chinese. “ _His wife is a serial cheater and he married her due to a one-night stand that resulted in a child that he knows is not his.”_

_“So, you’ll become the only stable thing in his life, no matter how unstable you are.”)_

 

“I usually have someone with me…he’s…not here now though…obviously.”

 

“Oh…is he a detective then?” Molly asks curiously.

 

Lestrade snorts and shakes his head; the remnants of a small smile gracing his face. “He’s a Consulting Detective.”

 

_(“Consulting Detective.” Sherlock states._

_“You just made that up.”_

_“Yes, but no one will argue with me about it because what I say is law.”_

_“Git.”)_

 

Molly nods and doesn’t say anything. “What’s his name?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Lestrade answers quickly as he makes his way over to the dead body.

 

“I’ve never heard of him.” Molly lies naturally.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Doctor…” he searches for her badge.

 

“Molly.” She replies. “Molly Hooper.”

 

She doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s gone still, that his mouth is agape. She can hear him close and open it several times, unable to get any words out. She reaches behind her to grab the folder and hands it to him. She looks at him then and his eyes are hesitant, showing recognition. She sighs and places her gloved hands on the slab, fingertips grazing the corpse. “It appears that we do indeed know each other, DI Lestrade.”

 

“Greg,” he says, clearing his throat. “Just Greg.” There is a slight pause. “How’s your dad, then?”

 

“Dying.”

* * *

Sherlock comes back on a rainy day.

 

She has the day off and is sleeping in when she hears the telltale signs of someone picking her lock. She doesn’t move, she knows who it is. Only one person has the audacity to pick her locks. A few minutes later, she hears footsteps and hears her floorboards creak as he makes his way to her room.

 

She feels his presence but doesn’t feel him getting into bed. “I wasn’t aware you needed an invitation.” She mutters, burying her head in the warm blankets.

 

She hears the falling of shoes and the rustling of clothes and she bounces lightly when the bed dips and he slips under the covers. Her eyes fly open when she realizes that he’s naked and hard against her.

 

“Did you miss me that much?” She asks teasingly, her voice turning into a gasp as he works her oversized shirt over her hips and hands trail to her breasts, pinching her nipples as he presses a soft, barely there kiss on her pulse. God, she’s missed this. She’s missed _him_.

 

She’s already wet when he cups her through her panties and her hands fumbles with his as she guides his fingers past her panties and puts them where she needs him most. “There’s been no one else.” He says into her ear, it’s not a question, but instead, a statement.

 

“No one.” She admits.

 

He pulls down her panties and throws them to the side and she hears the crinkling of a wrapper and then he’s spread her open, one leg hooked over his as he enters her. It’s not soft or gentle, it’s intense and hard and rough and Molly gasps, moans and keens with his attention. His hands are still on her breasts and his head in the crook of her neck, mouth sucking and biting a mark that she knows no make-up will be able to cover. His chest is slicked with sweat against her back and Molly has never felt so invigorated and if she could wake up to this every single day, she thinks she could die a happy and fulfilled woman.

 

“The game must resume.” He pants against her.

 

“Just because you left doesn’t mean I stopped.” She breathes out.

 

One of his hands leaves her breasts and cups her core, fingers toying with the curls. The sensation is too much; she comes with a shout, pleas of _Sherlock, please, oh God, Sherlock, more, more_ exiting out of her mouth like a long overdue confession.

 

He turns her head towards him roughly, neck craning awkwardly as he slants his mouth over hers and possesses her completely, spending himself inside of her with a grunt and low growl.

 

He pulls himself out of her and she tiredly and sorely turns on her back, twisting her head around to look at him. His eyes are still dilated, chest heaving, hands clenching and unclenching.

 

(Their mixed orgasms leave stains on her inner thighs, her soul, her heart.)  

 

(Something’s changed between them and Molly doesn’t know what.)

* * *

His head is between her legs, one leg thrown over his shoulder, heel digging into his spine as he uses his mouth to bring her to the precipice of pleasure. Her hands dig into his curls, nails scrapping along his scalp. He lifts his head and she protests, body heaving, his eyes are dark, “Mycroft bought me a flat. 221b Baker Street. I’m moving in.”

 

She hears the: _you’re not_.

 

“I want to fuck other people.” She retaliates.

 

His eyes flash with anger and unrestrained possessiveness and he presses his mouth against her harder until she’s screaming and begging and pleading. 

 

(Later, while she’s scrubbing her body in the shower until her skin is raw, she wonders where she went wrong, in that she’s not allowed to leave him but he’s allowed to break her.)

* * *

It’s business as usual from there.

 

He insults her and charms her for body parts and Molly (because she’s Mousy Molly in public) will fall for it because anything else is a deviation from the original plan and they’ve worked too hard on it.

 

(She receives a text one night, from Sebastian Moran of all people, asking to meet. Molly agrees, for sentimental reasons. They’ve kept in touch through the years, messages here and there. They meet at a pub and they hug, “so, how was war?” Molly asks him, as she takes the seat across from him.

 

“Bloody. How are the corpses?”

 

She smirks. “Quiet.”

 

“I was dishonorably discharged.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I killed somebody because they asked me to. Apparently, that’s frowned upon.”

 

“Generally. So, what are you doing now?”

 

Sebastian looks at her with a cocked eyebrow and sly grin. Molly laughs. “Oh, me? No. No. I don’t…I don’t fuck gay men.”

 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You did once.”

 

“Young and stupid.”

 

Sebastian leans back in his seat. “No. No. I can see it in your eyes. You want me. Oh.” His eyes light up. “There’s someone else. What’s his name?”

 

“There’s no one. I mean…there was someone…but now…there’s not.”

 

“Why? You’re not young and not nearly as stupid.”

 

She sighs and plays with the condensation on her cup of cold ale. “Because I think I love him more than he loves me.”

 

“Shame.”)

* * *

“He’s going too slowly.” Sherlock growls as he paces the length of his flat.

 

Molly lounges on the chair, legs thrown off the side of the chair and eats her Thai food.

 

“Everything is in front of him.”

 

She takes a sip of her drink and watches him think aloud.

 

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Sherlock snaps at her.

 

Molly blinks, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m allowed to talk?” She rolls her eyes. “There’s _one_ of _him_ and _two_ of _us_. Do the math, Sherlock.”

 

“It can’t be anyone.” Sherlock concedes.

 

Molly smirks. “He won’t be. In fact, the man I have in mind is perfect for him.”

 

By the end of her explanation, Sherlock is on the couch, hands steepled underneath his chin, elbows on his knee. He’s in his mind palace, sorting through all his memories, shifting everything that needs to be shifted to make room for more. Idly though, she wonders how he can concentrate with an impressive hard-on.

 

She chuckles as she throws out her take-away carton and puts on her shoes and coat, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

 

“Aren’t you going to take care of me?” Sherlock questions from his spot on the couch. He’s leaning back against the cushions, his dressing gown open and his cock still hard.

 

Molly bites her lip and makes her way towards him, cupping him. She puts her mouth to his, not kissing, just breathing the same air. He thrusts into her hands instinctively, as if they’ve done this dance before (and they have, multiple times.) She squeezes him once, then twice. “Take care of it yourself.” She whispers, her tongue tracing his cupid’s bow.

 

Then she leaves the flat.

 

When she reaches the front door she hears a number of gunshots and Mrs. Hudson comes running out of her flat. Molly’s features drop and she bites her lip, looking sad and depressed. “I think I’ve made him angry.”

 

Mrs. Hudson coos and puts a hand on her arm, “it’s not you, love. He’s been insufferable since he moved in three months ago.”

 

(Three months ago he left her.)

* * *

Her father smiles and flirts with his nurses; he puts on a brave face for Molly, but Molly knows the moment she leaves, the moment she turns her head, her father’s smile falls and he lets the pain overwhelm his body for mere moments before he smiles again.

 

Her father is dying and Molly is next to him, holding his hand. “Molly-love, this game…this…whatever you’re doing with Sherlock-”

 

“Dad, don’t strain yourself.” Molly tells him softly.

 

“Win it.” He finishes and he gives her a lopsided smile. “You’re a Hooper, Molly and we always, _always_ , win.”

 

“Always.” She promises.

 

(Her father flat lines and Molly is the one to call the time.)

* * *

Her father’s funeral is small. Only those closest to him, to the family attend.

 

Sherlock doesn’t.

 

(Molly will never forgive him for that.)

* * *

The day after her father’s funeral, Molly meets John Watson.

 

She thinks she could like him, if she didn’t hate him so bloody much.

* * *

“He shot someone for me.” Sherlock tells her, staring at her, waiting for her reaction.

 

_You killed someone for me,_ Molly wants to counter.

 

“How very loyal.” Molly replies through tight lips, “especially since both you and I knew those capsules were just _placebos_.”

 

“He doesn’t even know me.”

 

No one does, Molly rages inside her mind, _no one but me._

* * *

The circus is something Molly came up with.

 

Sherlock thinks it’s fascinating.

 

(Sebastian hesitates for a brief moment; it’s not surprising to her how quickly he became entranced with Moriarty but it does surprise her that Sebastian listens to her at all. Molly thinks it has to do with the fact that she knew and had him first.)

 

Shan is killed and Sebastian comes to see her. They meet on a Sunday at their old college.

 

“I killed her and she left the letter _M_.”

 

“I know.” Molly says.

 

Sebastian looks at her, “yeah, but at this point, I’m not sure if _M_ means Moriarty or you.”

 

Molly gives him a small smile, “that’s part of the game, isn’t it?”

 

When Molly meets James Moriarty, he introduces himself as Jim from IT.

* * *

Molly’s breath catches in her throat when she sees familiar brown hair and familiar brown eyes. (She looks down at his hands, almost expecting sneakers to be dangling from his fingertips, the sneakers, she finds, come later, and an _I.O.U_. on his lips.)

 

He pulls off his persona perfectly and Molly has to hand it to him for being spectacular at what he does.

 

(But Molly is better.)

* * *

She has sex with Moriarty ( _Jim,_ she reminds herself, _Jim_ ) after their first date.

 

He’s impressive, hits all the right spots and lets his savage nature take over.

 

He’s still a fantastic mastermind criminal _(“he calls himself Consulting Criminal to my Consulting Detective, I’d be flattered, if he didn’t lack imagination”)_ but Molly is still better.

* * *

When Sherlock outs him as gay, Molly pretends to be outraged.

 

And maybe, she is truly a bit outraged because, _it all makes sense now_ and _how the hell did she miss it?_

 

Sherlock sees through her façade and he looks shocked as she turns away and Molly could be imagining it (although, she’s certain she isn’t) but he looks oddly hurt. Betrayed.

 

_(“Mycroft bought me a flat. 221b Baker Street. I’m moving in.”_

_“I want to fuck other people.”)_

 

Did he honestly believe that she wasn’t capable of following through on her promise?

* * *

“You fucked him.” The words fall from his mouth as soon as she walks through her darkened bedroom. She’s not surprised that he’s there. If anything, she was expecting him (because for as smart as he is, Molly is _just as smart_.) She turns on the lights and finds him sitting on the edge of her bed, a folder next to him.

 

“I did.”

 

They don’t say anything else, but when he looks at her, it’s with cold indifference. He hands her a folder, “her name is Irene Adler.”

 

Molly swallows the bile that reaches her throat as she looks at the pictures of the dominatrix. She’s beautiful in a way that Molly will never be and the fact that Sherlock handpicked her makes her blood boil and her heart sink. She stares at him and shrugs, shoving all her worries and insecurities deep inside of her, hidden away from him. “She’ll do.”

* * *

Molly doesn’t just hate Irene Adler; she _loathes_ her.

 

She doesn’t think she’s ever loathed someone so much as at Christmas.

 

Sherlock stutters as he sees it, _To Sherlock, Love Molly xoxo_. She’s confused him, God only knows, she’s been confusing herself for nearly two decades. He looks up at her, his eyes wary, confused and so much like a lost and confused child, as he makes his way over to her, she can feel and hear the hitch of his breath as he leans his head towards her and presses a small kiss to her cheek.

 

It’s their first public display of affection. It’s his first declaration that he sees her as more than a body-bagger and it’s her turn to be speechless.

 

Then Irene Adler moans and Molly loathes her all over again.

* * *

Molly knows that Irene Adler isn’t dead. She knows that Sherlock knows she knows Irene Adler isn’t dead.

 

He also knows that she knows he went to save her from being beheaded.

 

She knows this because when she walks into her flat one night, after a particularly long shift, she feels a presence long before she turns on the light and when she does, she’s surprised (thought she knows she shouldn’t be) when instead of Sherlock, it’s Irene Adler in the flesh, waiting for her.

 

She’s in a tight red dress, matching the color on her lips. She smiles at Molly from her spot on the couch, legs crossed and heels tapping on the hardwood floor.

 

“You’re Molly Hooper.” Her voice is sultry and everything about her oozes sex and debauchery. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

 

“I’m sure you are.” Molly responds. “What do you want?”

 

“You did my autopsy, yet you’re not surprised to see me here, not dead.”

 

“Because I always knew you weren’t.” Molly balls her hands into fists and this doesn’t escape the dominatrix’s notice. 

 

Irene gets up and walks towards her, she towers over Molly in her heels and Mousy Molly would be intimidated by her, but Molly Hooper isn’t. Molly Hooper has dealt with people better and worse than Irene Adler. Irene leans closes, her breasts pressing against Molly, “men, they underestimate us women, don’t they?”

 

Molly’s lips twist into a sneer and without thinking, she lashes out, her hand closing around Irene’s throat. “Don’t you _dare_ lump me in the same category as you.” She hisses as Irene claws at Molly’s hands. Molly releases her and feels a sort of vindication as she sees Irene gape at her, her hands going to her throat, trying to calm herself down. “You have _no idea_ what I’m capable of.”

 

“No.” Irene agrees, her voice hoarse, “I don’t suppose anyone does.” She cocks an eyebrow and straightens her back. “Except for Sherlock Holmes. I fucked him.”

 

“I don’t care.” Molly answers.

 

“You should.” Irene fires back, she sighs and brushes away a stray hair from her face, “because when he came, and I do not need to tell you how glorious he looks like when he loses control, he called me, _Molly_.” She smiles at her, all teeth and no sincerity, “this is all a game, one that I have no interest in any longer because the lot of you are entirely too _fucked_ up for my refined tastes, but one must wonder, who’s playing whom?”

 

“Get out.” Molly tells her, her voice deadly calm despite the turmoil that is igniting in her body. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. And if I ever see your bloody face again or even hear a whisper of your name, _I will kill you_ and Sherlock nor Moriarty nor you stupid blackmail tricks will help you.”

 

The taller brunette raises her hands in mock surrender. “I know when I’m defeated.” And then she leaves out the front door as if she always belonged there.

 

Molly doesn’t think about it, she grabs her keys and leaves, her feet taking her to a familiar flat.

 

(Because despite everything, all roads lead to Sherlock.)

* * *

She knows John isn’t there as she bounds up the stairs as soon as Mrs. Hudson lets her in. “He’s been in his mind palace all day.” The older woman tells her.

 

Molly nods and walks into the living with purposeful strides. She waits until she knows Mrs. Hudson has gone back into her flat when she takes a seat on the table, in front of Sherlock. “Are we done?” She asks him loudly, her hand coming up to push his shoulder, “are we even yet?” There is hysteria lacing her voice and there is something constricting her heart and it _hurts_. Her _entire body hurts_. “Are you done pretending that I mean jack shit to you?”

 

His eyes snap open and he reaches for her quickly, pulling her into his lap, her legs straddling him as he attacks her mouth with his.

 

She moans and (maybe even) cries a little bit into his mouth. She opens up instantly, allowing his tongue to relearn the contours of her.

 

(There is something about kissing Sherlock, about touching Sherlock, about loving Sherlock with every breath and fiber that reminds her of _home_. That reminds her of the person she could have been but never will be.)

 

She loves this man, she realizes, as he unties his dress gown and pulls down his ratty pajamas and pants and lifts her skirt, pushing her panties aside and entering her without any warning. He claws at her, bending her backwards as she bounces on his cock, her cries and pleas echoing throughout the flat. “Molly.” He groans through hissed teeth, “Molly. Molly. _Molly_.” _MollyMollyMolly._

 

(This realization terrifies her more than she thought it would.)

* * *

They have sex throughout the night, insistent on making up for lost time and she’s eager to make him erase all memories of Irene Adler from his mind.

 

Most of the times, they’re rough and hard, biting and pulling and pinching, eliciting screams from her lips and guttural cries from deep in his throat.

 

And then, as the night comes to a close, he slows everything down, sliding down her body and entering her slowly, ensuring that every inch of his body touches hers. He pins her hands by her head and clasps them with his tightly, hips thrusting deeply and at a lazy pace.

 

(He’s killing her with pleasure.)

 

He leans his forehead against hers and she stares at his eyes as she arches her back and whimpers. “Sherlock…Sherlock… _Sherlock, please_.”

 

He tightens his grip on her hands and pulls out of her, only to sit in the middle of his bed and pulling her back atop of him, she wraps her legs around his back, locking them in place and wraps her arms around his neck as she arches against him and moans and gasps finally lets out a sob when one of his hands reaches between them and strokes her. She explodes with a loud wail, her name rumbling from her lips, like a long overdue confession. He follows shortly after.

 

They’re panting and heaving and he lays her down on her back, lying above her, arms and legs still tightly locked around each, so that she doesn’t know where he ends and she begins.

 

Something’s changed between them, altering their dynamic irrevocably.

 

(Or maybe it’s always been this way but she’s just been too stupid to realize it.)

* * *

“You know that Moriarty was the one who killed Carl Powers.”

 

Molly nods, “I saw him that day.”

 

“He means to kill me.”

 

“I’ll kill him first.” Molly promises him.

* * *

“How was Dartmoor?” Molly asks him as he walks into her flat, she hands him his Indian take-away food.

 

“I lost control of my mind.”

 

Molly raises her eyebrows. “Yeah? How’d that make you feel?”

 

He rolls his eyes, “no different than when I’m with you.”

 

(Molly doesn’t know whether or not to take that as a compliment or an insult.)

* * *

_“Molly?”_ Sebastian says through the phone. _“Jim’s getting bored.”_

 

“That’s fine.” Molly answers. “So are we.”

* * *

They share a glance as he leaves the lab early that morning. He doesn’t have to say it because Molly already knows it.

 

Despite everything, she _counts_ , she’s _always counted_ and Sherlock Holmes has _always trusted her_.

 

(Enough to kill him.)

* * *

Sherlock Holmes’ funeral is anything but small. It’s grand and he would have hated it.

 

Molly plays the devoted friend, the supposed unrequited love.

 

She offers her unconditional support to Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John, all of whom are inconsolable in their grief.

 

It’s a different story when she goes home. At home, she nurses his left over wounds and he buries himself in her until she doesn’t know where he ends and she begins.

* * *

“We need to get rid of the network.” Molly tells him.

 

“I know.”

 

“It’ll be extensive.”

 

“I’m bored with this game, Molly.”

 

“Me too.”

* * *

When Mycroft comes to pick him up, Molly lets him and Anthea in.

 

The eldest Holmes brother looks at her while Anthea types wildly on her mobile. “I always knew you would be the death of him.”

 

There is a pause in typing and Molly looks over at Anthea who is staring at her phone but Molly knows better, she’s paying attention to their conversation, eager to know how Molly is going to react (what is it with all Holmes’ eager to see how she reacts to what they say?) Molly grins, “yes, but you always knew that I would be the one to bring him back to life.”

 

“Touché, Dr. Hooper, touché.” Mycroft cracks a, albeit small, almost non-existent, smile. 

 

Anthea continues to type.

* * *

_“Molly,”_ Mary squeals into the phone. _“I’m coming home. The world bores me now.”_

* * *

“John, I’d like you to meet one of my best friends, Mary Morstan. Mary, meet John.”

 

(If she weren’t so busy being a sociopathic pathologist, Molly thinks she could have been a matchmaker in another life.)

 

It’s a good thing for her that she’s particularly fond of this one.

* * *

It’s been almost three years since Sherlock died and left.

 

He comes back here and there, mostly when he needs someone to patch him up. Mostly when he needs to bury himself in her, to remind himself that she _is_ here, that she will _never_ stray too far. She opens herself to him readily, welcoming him back with everything she has.

 

“It’s almost done.” He tells her one night as he lifts his head from her lap, her juices covering his mouth and chin. “Just one more person.”

 

There is an ache in Molly’s chest, not an overwhelming one, but one that is just there. She knew this day would come and she’s almost sorry that it has to happen. “I know.”

 

He lowers his head back down to her and makes her forget about everything, except for him.

 

(Because Molly Hooper could never forget about Sherlock Holmes.)

* * *

They meet on a Sunday, outside their old college.

 

“Molly,” Sebastian says, “I want you there.”

 

“You’re not even going to fight?” She asks him, sounding disappointed.

 

He shakes his head, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, “there’s no point. I should have died over _there_ , you know? But I didn’t. Feels right that I should die here. At home.”

 

“I feel like I should be saying sorry for dragging you into this…” Molly trails off.

 

Sebastian laughs. “Don’t be. It’s been a blast.” He gets up and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you around, Hooper.”

* * *

It ends where _everyone else_ thinks it began. On the roof of Bart’s.

 

Molly is standing behind a protruding structure, hidden away from Sherlock’s view.

 

“So,” Sebastian says, his voice calm as he dances along the ledge, “we finally meet at last Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock acknowledges.

 

“We have more in common than you think.” Sebastian smirks at him, “tell me, Sherlock. Did you know I had her first? Oh…you do. How does that make you feel? Does it enrage you? Does it make you want to pull that trigger and kill me? Don’t worry; Jim felt the same when he found out. Thought I betrayed him.” There is a pause, “which I did but in the end, are we going to argue about semantics?”

 

“Why?” Sherlock asks him. “Why did you betray him?”

 

Sebastian blinks at him. “It was either Molly or him. It’s simple really, I’ve known Molly longer.”

 

“Not as long as I have.” Sherlock counters.

 

“Oh, Sherlock. _No one_ knows _Molly_ quite as well or for as long as _you_.” He sighs and calls out lazily. “Molly? Molly, I’m getting tired. Can we get this over with?”

 

“You sure you want to do this?” Molly asks him, as she steps out from her hiding place.

 

Sebastian grins. “How about one last shag, for old time’s sake?”

 

“I don’t fuck gay men.” Molly says, repeating parts of their conversation with a slight laugh. The wind picks up and Sebastian sways.

 

“Shame.” His smile drops and he spreads his arms. “I’ll see you around, Hooper.” And then he steps off the ledge and plummets to the ground.

 

She can hear the crunch and cracks from the roof and she hears the sudden screams and cries from the busy London sidewalk.

 

Molly looks over at Sherlock who is staring at her with an expression that Molly can’t quite place. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Sherlock.”

 

He puts the safety on the gun and drops it to the ground, pulling her around the waist and kissing her deeply, body pressing against hers.

 

(People are still screaming and crying, surrounding Sebastian Moran’s dead and broken body, but Molly and Sherlock ignore them.)

* * *

Lestrade curses and rants, arms flailing until he runs out of breath and then claps Sherlock on the back. “Bloody good to see you, mate.”

 

Mrs. Hudson starts crying.

 

John punches him.

 

Mary is looking back and forth, her eyes finally landing on Molly and asks, “one of these days, you’re going to tell me the entire story.”

 

“It’s entirely too long.” Molly says.

 

(Over two decades long.)

* * *

As soon as everyone leaves 221b Baker Street, Sherlock pulls her into his room and proceeds to undress her at the same time she undresses him.

 

He goes slowly, like that night three years ago, pressing every inch of his body to hers.

 

He pins her hands by her head and grips them tightly as he pumps in and out of her.

 

She’s her sanity, her heart, her soul to this man.

 

She pulls him down on her, their lips touching each other but not kissing, just breathing in the same breath. “I love you.” She finally admits. “ _I love you_. I’ve always loved you.”

 

“I know.” He replies and Molly hears the unspoken, _I love you too_.

 

(He doesn’t say it. Not that he has to. Molly knows without words that he does. She knows in the way that he puts his arms around her waist, the way his lips find every inch of her body in the dark, the way his hands grip her own, the way he thrusts into her slowly and deeply, that he has _loves_ her. That he’s _always_ loved her and always _will_.)

* * *

“Do I have a room in your mind palace?” She asks him quietly, bringing up a long forgotten but always haunting question, later that night.  

 

“Molly, you _are_ my mind palace.” He admits.

* * *

The greatest game (trick) she (he, _they_ ) ever play, isn’t faking his death and getting away with it, it isn’t taking down a criminal network (that, for all intents and purposes, they had a hand in creating) for the sake of the good, it isn’t even making everyone believe what they saw and ignore what was so _obviously_ in their face. 

 

No, the greatest game (trick) she (he, _they_ ) ever play, is making them believe, that it was all by chance.

 

(Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper leave nothing to chance.)

**Author's Note:**

> I love you all so much. Your wonderful support in everything I write is what inspires me. I would not even think to write/post/create this, if it weren’t for all of you. I want you all to know that you are all so fucking fantastic, words cannot even begin to explain how much so. This being said, I apologize if anyone is traumatized because of this, because let me tell you, I’m traumatized and I wrote this damned thing. 
> 
> Anyways, I LOVE YOU ALL SO SO SO MUCH and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this!
> 
> MAD RESPECT AND LOVE, 
> 
> BB


End file.
